Degrees of Restraint
by scorchedtrees
Summary: A collection of drabbles and ficlets featuring Arya and Gendry. Includes prompts from Arya/Gendry Week.
1. Dare

_A/N: So I haven't even finished watching the series or reading the books, but when I discovered it was Arya/Gendry's ship week I really wanted to write something for it so I tried. This drabble is set in the TV series so Gendry finds out she's a girl when they're still with the Night's Watch. It doesn't really have anything to do with the prompt; I just used the word in the fic ah. I wrote something for each Arya/Gendry Week prompt; I'll be posting them in this collection. Sorry if the title is pretty random; if I come up with anything better I'll probably change it in the future._

* * *

Arya's never felt freer, or more stifled.

In the midst of a large group of men, boys, and prisoners making the long journey to the Wall, no one pays her much attention and she is left to her own devices. There is no one to tell her how to dress, when to speak, where to go and what to do, and she is finally free to decide herself what she wants to do every day.

But at the same time, she's never been more careful—to find secluded spots every time they make camp, to steer clear of certain people and keep a hand on Needle at all times, to busy herself drawing water and studying her surroundings and bothering Gendry as they walk, just to keep the images and memories that still haunt her dreams at bay.

It's a bit of a relief, actually, when she tells Gendry her identity—there is someone she can speak openly with now, someone she doesn't have to watch herself with, and Gendry for the most part doesn't treat her any differently: she's still annoying little Arry to him.

One night they set up camp not too far from a small stream, and she waits until it is dark out to stir from her spot on the ground. It's difficult enough finding privacy to relieve herself, let alone bathe, and Arya Stark has never minded a little dirt but being covered in layers of grime after days of not washing is a bit too uncomfortable even for her—her skin feels sticky and itchy and she longs to scrub it clean.

She's about to stand when the bushes rustle and someone stumbles back towards the camp. Another boy whose name she doesn't remember, hair damp and the shine of water on his skin: he just came back from bathing.

Arya frowns in his direction; she thought everyone would be asleep by now. She can't watch for other people approaching and hide in time if she's in the stream.

Then she sees Gendry lying not too far from her bedroll, on his back and snoring, and she gets an idea.

"Gendry!" she hisses, walking over and nudging him with her foot. "Gendry, get up."

He grunts and shifts slightly, so she kicks him harder.

He cracks one eye open to glare at her. "What? I'm sleeping."

She crouches by his side so he can see her face; the moonlight settles in the blue of his eyes. "I need to bathe."

"Well, go bathe then," he says, staring at her like she's the stupid one.

"I need help," she explains.

He sits up at that, his brow furrowed in confusion and his cheeks… is he turning red? "I'm a blacksmith's apprentice," he sputters. "I never learned how to wait on anyone or help them bathe—"

_Stupid._ "I don't mean help like _that_," she snaps, though she makes sure to keep her voice low. "I mean I need you to keep watch for me so if someone comes you can warn me."

He raises his eyes to the sky for a moment; the night is dark but littered with stars, providing faint visibility. "As m'lady commands."

Arya kicks him again, hard enough to draw a pained wince. "I _told_ you not to call me that!"

He grumbles but stands, following her through the sleeping bodies sprawled around them. The ground at the edge of the stream is softer, dirt crumbling beneath her feet into the clear, trickling water, and as they make their way further downstream, she finds a good area with bushes and tall weeds growing nearby to block her view of the campsite.

"I'll be quick," she says, pulling off her shoes and putting one toe in the water. It is cool, refreshing, and she relishes the thought of sinking into it, letting it envelop her body and wash away the filth and sweat and worries of the past few days.

She's about to start removing her shirt when she realizes Gendry is still there; she whirls around but sees that he has turned his back to her. "Don't peek," she warns, just in case.

She can only see the blackness of his shadow but she swears she can hear the smile in his voice as he answers, "I wouldn't dare, m'lady."

Her bath begins much more quickly than she expects; when she shoves him into the water, he pulls her down with him.

* * *

_Apologies if this is terrible/OOC/full of inaccuracies/all three; concrit would be appreciated! _


	2. Forbidden

_A/N: Modern AU that once again doesn't have too much to do with the prompt, but whatever. Let me know if I should stop spamming ffnet with these silly drabbles. xP_

* * *

It's luck that helps her distract the security guard at the side entrance. Well, if luck can take the form of two drunk boys, anyway.

In the middle of the crowd, with lights flashing and bass pounding, thousands of voices cheering and almost-but-not-quite drowning out the band on stage, no one pays attention to a little bit of jostling and shoving, but when two kids who barely look legal (Arya should know; she's not exactly legal herself) start to throw punches, shouting slurred curses at each other that rise over the din of everything else, the security guard by the backstage entrance she's been eyeing moves to break up the fight.

Instantly Arya slips over, keeping an eye on the man who's pulling apart the two rowdy teenagers, and pushes lightly on the steel bar over the door. She half-expects it to be locked, so when the door swings open, she pauses for a moment before taking the opportunity to duck inside, ignoring the "Authorized Personnel Only" sign.

The door leads to an echoey stairwell, all gray concrete, with stained metal railings and exits on each floor. Thinking of the layout of the venue, she realizes going through the door on this level would lead straight to the stage, and she doesn't want to meet the band just yet, not while they're still in the middle of a performance—she wants to see their dressing rooms.

There's probably going to be a VIP party afterwards of some sort, so she chooses the only logical direction to go: up.

The first door is locked, so she travels another flight of stairs only to find the next door locked too. Wondering if she should try a different route, she ascends one more flight and tests the doorknob tentatively; this one turns. The door opens into a red plush-carpeted hallway with glass cases lining the walls, displaying autographed concert posters dating all the way back to the early 1900s, when the venue was first established. _No wonder the stairs are so gross,_ she thinks as she makes her way down the hallway, searching for another entrance or exit to lead her to her destination.

There are several doors lining the hall, but only the one at the far end is unlocked. Pushing it open, she steps through and stops in her tracks.

She must have found her way to the technical booth, or whatever it is that stage crew members sit in to man all the technical aspects of a performance. A man stands between rows of lights beaming down through gaps in the glass screen, adjusting and flicking switches, moving them manually—she sees him turn one light to point in at a certain angle, fiddling with something on the side, and an instant later, the stage below flashes a deep purple.

Next to him is someone else with headphones on, sitting at a large panel of knobs and switches. He must be the sound engineer—Arya steps forward for a closer look through the glass booth he is in, and at that moment he turns to push a button, and sees her.

She offers him her most innocent look through the glass and the guy blinks at her in confusion. He's young, she thinks, surely not much older than her, early to mid-twenties at the most, and a faint frown creases his brow before he tugs his headphones off and sticks his head outside the booth.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice low; she can hardly hear him anyway through the bass pounding up from below their feet. "How'd you get here?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Seriously," he says. He stands, and she unconsciously takes a step back; he's tall. A lot taller than her, though that's not really saying much. "Who let you in? Or do you have a pass?"

She waves a hand airily in the direction of his workstation. "Shouldn't you be busy?"

"It's fine for now," he says with a shrug. "I don't need to adjust the sound much unless there's unexpected feedback." Then he raises an eyebrow as if wondering why he's telling her this. "Go back to where you came from, kid."

That annoys her; he can't be any older than Jon or Robb. "I'm eighteen," she lies, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing him with a glare. "Don't call me _kid_."

"Alright then, ma'am," he says dryly, earning himself another dark look, "go back to where you came from."

He doesn't seem inclined to drag her away though, and it's not like he can leave this area during the performance anyway—so she ignores him and leans forward to peer at his workstation. "What do all those knobs do?"

The guy groans and looks half-ready to step out of the booth to deal with her, but then he only lets out a sigh of defeat. "Volume control," he says.

Suddenly it occurs to her that he basically has all the sound the band is producing at his fingertips, and with that thought another pops up. "Do you work for the venue or the BWB?"

His lips twitch as he pulls his headphones back on. "BWB," he says. "I know their setup by heart and it's easier to have me along when they tour than training a crew member at every venue."

"Beric doesn't lip-sync, does he?"

"No," the guy says, a full-blown grin on his face now, "he doesn't. Good thing for all his adoring fangirls. You're one of them, aren't you?"

She'd punch him for that if she could; as it is, a glass wall stands between them, though the door is open and technically she _could_ slip inside if she wanted. She won't though; she'll respect his workspace, at least.

"I'm not a _fangirl_," she settles for saying with a scowl. "I was just wondering."

"Of course, ma'am."

She wants to kick him. She scowls harder instead.

He doesn't pay her any attention after that, returning to sliding knobs and moving switches and pressing buttons occasionally, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs and scratching his neck. From the glass partition high above, she can still hear the band's music, muted and distant, but it is separated from the screaming of the crowds below. She taps her foot and mouths the lyrics when they start on one of her favorite songs, and at that moment the guy turns and gives a start when he sees her again.

"You're _still_ here?"

"What does it look like, stupid?"

He considers her for a moment, then removes his headphones and holds them out to her. "You wanna hear?"

She nods, delighted by the prospect; he offers her a crooked smile along with the headset as she steps into the booth.

His fingers brush hers as he hands her the headphones; his hands are warm and big compared to hers. She places the headphones over her ears and tilts her head, listening.

Beric's voice is crystal-clear in the headset, the guitar riffs not as loud and the bass solid but quiet. The percussion is sharp and almost grating, and each part sounds separate from the others, as opposed to the great mass of sound coming live from the stage.

"It's the sound from the mixer," the guy explains, taking the headphones back when she pulls them off her ears. "Makes it easier to hear if there are any problems with anything."

"That's cool," she says, looking around the small booth. There is an empty Coke can on the floor and a dark blue jacket draped over his chair; she can't help noticing the strong muscles of his arms and how his gray T-shirt accentuates his shoulders. "How'd you start working for the BWB anyway?"

"I knew Anguy before the BWB made it big," he explains. "I've always been into music and audio engineering—playing with sounds and enhancing them. When they made it big, Anguy invited me to tour with them."

"I've never heard of you," she says.

"That's no surprise; I'm not in the band. I'm probably mentioned somewhere on their website in tiny print or something," he says. "I'm Gendry."

"Is that guy with the BWB too?" She jerks her thumb at the man working at the lighting.

"Nah, he's part of the venue. They want to train someone for their lighting too, but it's harder 'cause lighting systems change a lot depending on the venue. The sound system's always pretty solid."

He looks at her expectantly, and after a moment she realizes why. "I'm Arya."

"Arya," he repeats; there's something weird about the way he says her name that makes something flip in her stomach. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

She does kick him this time.


	3. Rain

Arya's gotten so used to the sweltering heat of King's Landing that when a single fat raindrop lands on her nose, it takes her a moment to comprehend what it is.

She's stalking a cat in the streets, trying to be just as silent, choosing her steps carefully and avoiding puddles and other questionable-looking things littering the ground. The second the next raindrop falls, the cat abandons all stealth, letting out a yowl as it leaps away, and before she can follow or turn back in the direction of the Keep, rain begins to fall in torrents.

Instantly she is drenched, her clothing soaked through, her hair sticking to the back of her neck, and she makes a face as she ducks into an alleyway, looking around for something she can stand under to avoid the deluge. Not many others are out but those who are shake their heads and hurry away, clearly seeking shelter nearby.

The castle isn't too far away but Arya doesn't want to make the trek through the downpour; already the dirt of the streets is turning into mud, rivulets of water running down the cracks in the stones. Her hands and face feel clammy like they have been that way for hours, but despite the rain, the air is still muggy, dampness clinging to her like a second skin as water slides off her body and sinks into her clothes.

Her shoes are probably ruined, she thinks as she slogs through the alley, clinging to the wall like it might offer some protection. The open street beyond has quickly been deserted, doors closed and curtains drawn shut, and she wonders if anyone will let a dirty, wet little girl track mud in.

She's standing at the edge of the street, pushing her sopping hair out of her eyes and blinking through the rain, when she hears someone hiss, "Over here!"

Turning, she spots a hand waving at her from beneath a large wooden stall outside a small shop. The stall looks abandoned, no wares in sight, its top uncovered, one of the wheels broken, but the space beneath it is empty and when she approaches, she sees a boy huddled underneath, a bag clutched to his chest and soot streaked across his face.

"Who're you?" she asks, but she joins him below the slabs of wood thankfully still nailed together at the top. It is a tight fit—he looks to be her older brothers' age and his shoulders are broad—but she's small.

"Tobho Mott's apprentice," he mumbles. "Just got something for my master and left before the rain started. Dirk wouldn't let me back in after." Her knees are pressed against his in the cramped area and she can see the wariness in his blue eyes as he squints at her. "I never seen you around before. Who're you?"

"Arya," she says, trying to wipe her face dry with her sleeves before realizing she's only moving the rainwater from place to place. She gives up and settles down instead, pressing her back into the uncomfortable wooden boards. Raindrops drum on top of the stall, the occasional one slipping in, but it is much more preferable to being pounded by them constantly.

"What're you doing here?"

"Chasing a cat," she says, because she can think of no better answer.

The boy scoffs and she jabs him in the shoulder with a finger. "What's so funny?"

"Least I was doing something useful," he snorts.

She jabs him again, harder, because there is not much room to maneuver underneath the stall. He shrugs and she lets it slide.

They stay there in silence for a while, listening to the rain over their heads and watching it flow past in the streets outside. Arya starts to feel cold, the chill of her damp clothes overtaking the sticky humidity of the air, but she can feel body heat emanating from the boy like a furnace and she resists the urge to lean closer to the warmth.

"What's your name?" she finally says, because one can only listen to and stare at dreary, gray rain for so long.

He shifts a bit, moving the bag in his arms. "Gendry."

"What do you do?"

"I told you, I'm Tobho Mott's apprentice." At her blank look, he says, "The master armorer? You must've heard of him."

"I haven't."

He frowns. "Where're you from then?"

"I'm from the North," she informs him, a touch proudly.

"Like the Hand of the King?"

She thinks of her father and hopes he isn't wondering where she is right now, hopes he isn't too worried. "Yes."

"I never been outside King's Landing," Gendry says, twisting his hands a little like he wants to stretch his arms, but there is no room. "What's it like up north?"

She thinks of the castle at Winterfell, so much more welcoming than the Red Keep, of the walls Bran liked to climb and the grounds where her brothers and Theon practice swords and archery and the peaceful quiet of the godswood, but she only says, "Cold."

He laughs.

The storm goes as quickly as it comes—within a few more minutes, the rain starts to lessen, then stops entirely, and Arya pokes her head tentatively outside. The air is heavy with heat and humidity but nothing touches her face, so she scrambles out at the same time her companion tries to do the same. They bump into each other and sprawl across the ground in two undignified heaps.

"Sorry," he says, standing right away, offering her a hand. She ignores it, pushing herself to her own feet, ignoring the mud now coating her clothing—her septa is sure to have a fright at seeing her again.

"Bye, Gendry," she says, turning back towards the alleyway that leads to the road up to the Keep.

"You're going that way?"

"I live at the Keep."

He looks at her, uncomprehending, and she sighs. She could tell him she's a servant girl or a servant's daughter, but he was awfully nice, letting her squeeze with him underneath the stall for shelter from the rain when he could have let her get wet and leave himself more comfortable, and for some reason she doesn't want to lie to him. So she says, "I'm the Hand's daughter."

Gendry opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then he says, "That means… you're a lady, aren't you? I'm sorry, I should've—"

"Don't you dare," she snaps, jabbing him again, though now that they are both standing straight she can only reach his chest easily and not his shoulder. "Don't call me m'lady or start treating me differently or I'll kick you."

A smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "A fearsome punishment, m'lady."

She proceeds to show him just how fearsome her mud-soaked shoes can be.

* * *

_A/N: I haven't written that much Arya/Gendry but already she's kicking him a lot haha. Anyway I don't think people read this so I probably won't be posting any more of these on ffnet, but have another update inbox spam for this collection because I like the number three lol._


	4. Dream

_A/N: Written for AxG Week Day 4: Dream._

* * *

She doesn't talk to him about her nightmares.

He will never know what she sees when she closes her eyes at night, but whatever it is that bothers her does so frequently. He knows because she finds him when she is plagued with terrible dreams, opens his door and slips soundlessly into his room; the bed dips with her weight and he reaches for her, never saying anything, just pulling her close and stroking her hair as she tucks her chin into the crook of his neck (it fits perfectly, he thinks).

After a time she just sleeps in his room, and despite what others believe that is all she does. His presence seems to calm her; he usually manages to sleep through the night but sometimes he wakes to the trembling of her body, and he grips her shoulders and rubs soothing circles against her back until her eyelids flutter open.

She isn't the little girl he remembers anymore; she is fierce and cold, her eyes like chips of ice, her face every bit as severe as the long winter, but when her arms tighten around him and she mumbles incoherently into his back, when he wakes before her to find something like a smile at the corner of her lips as she rests, when she lets her guard down around him when they are alone, he knows she is still every bit the Arya Stark he has never stopped loving.

"What do you dream about?" he can't help asking one night when he shakes her awake from a particularly terrible nightmare; she was nearly thrashing in her sleep. Her face instantly goes blank and he wishes he hadn't asked; that's one of their unspoken rules: don't pry. He can tell her what he did in the years she was gone but she is never obligated to tell him about her past.

"I dream of Winterfell," she whispers.

He turns his head to stare. She continues, her gaze unfocused as if she is seeing not the flickering shadows of their room but the great castle before her.

"I have three dreams. I dream of retaking Winterfell."

She's not talking about her nightmares, then—but she never talks about anything, so he stays silent and lets her continue.

"I dream of seeing my siblings again."

She shifts and stops talking, closing her mouth and blinking up at the ceiling in the darkness. He waits three minutes, and when she does not speak again he clears his throat.

"What's the third dream?"

She leans forward and presses her cheek to his shoulder with a soft sigh. She does not say anything more, but her hand finds his, fingers curling against his palm, and he thinks he knows what her third dream is already.

* * *

_A/N: If you have feedback of any sort (if anything doesn't make sense, if anyone's OOC, if you liked it/hated it/whatever), please let me know; I'll continue to post on ffnet if there is interest._


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